Choosing and Playing a Melody
by everyday-deeds
Summary: Music was all Eyes Rutherford held onto in the ticking bomb that was his life, and it was what propelled him to make the choice he made in a strange confrontation in a drafty London concert hall. One-shot.


**This fic is an early birthday present for the lovely friend who introduced me to the awesomeness that is Spiral. Eyes is her favorite character; however I will be the first to admit that he is not mine, so I'm not sure how well I captured him here. And unfortunately I can't remember if the meeting I wrote here is supposed to not have taken place in canon, but I like to think it did. **

**Anyway- happy birthday, Maria! And to anyone else who reads- enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Spiral.**

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><p>"What does it feel like to be the greatest pianist in the world?"<p>

Eyes Rutherford stared at his slender hands folded in his lap. That had to be one of the most inane questions he had ever received from a reporter, and over the course of his time as a child prodigy, he had heard several inane questions. He tried not to look with longing around the drafty concert hall. Long windows stretched from ceiling to floor, providing ghostly grey light that filtered through the aisles and velvet seats and illuminated the piano that sat like a lonely dog in the middle of the stage.

No doubt this reporter was trying to ask questions that he thought a teenage star would like to hear. And the more Eyes looked at the man, the more likely it seemed that that was the case. The reporter's receding hairline, jaded eyes and battered glasses all seemed to indicate a man who had spent most of his life dealing with obstacles. A man who spent most of his life observing, but never truly understanding. For Eyes felt that if the man had thought about the idea behind the question more thoroughly, it could have been a good one. Or one at least worth pondering.

As it was, however, the question was banal. Trite. And certainly not worthy of a thoughtful answer.

Slowly it bore down on Eyes that the man was tapping his notebook with his thumb. A nervous gesture. And then the pianist realized that he had been staring intently at the man for at least twenty seconds. Possibly longer. That would be unsettling for almost anyone.

Leaning back in his chair, he shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry, Mr. Murphy- I was just thinking. And being the greatest pianist in the world is…" He searched for the right word, a word that would satisfy this reporter and at the same time, unsettle him enough to get rid of him. Several adjectives danced in his mind. "Chilling," he said at last.

Mr. Murphy, of the _London Evening Standard_, blinked and stared at him. "Chilling, Mr. Rutherford?"

Eyes nodded and smiled thinly, which Mr. Murphy seemed to find as unsettling as his answer. The reporter carefully stood, moving backwards and murmuring his thanks. "It's been a pleasure talking with you, and- um, I look forward to the performance this evening." He shifted his rail thin body between the chairs and slunk out of the hall, still scribbling in his notebook.

Tapping his fingers along the back of his chair, Eyes shut his eyes, tracing the piano keys in his mind. Every note, every scale, every possible tempo, all passed behind his closed eyelids in a blur of memory, sound and, running behind it all, a smooth wall of black and white that would play at his command.

Rising suddenly, he walked up to the stage. His entire life seemed to vanish whenever he could lose himself in the music, and though he hardly enjoyed the sensation of losing himself, at times it seemed better than living as he was. Cursed. Alone. Wondering every day when his blood would turn on him, and make him a killer. It was almost every day now he found himself wondering if maybe death was such a horrible option. His best friend had already decided that that was the case. Death for himself and every other Blade Child.

Absently Eyes ran his fingers over the keys and then settled into a rhythm that he knew well enough. He had no name for the music that he played when alone- it was a distillation of scales, running up and down each note, with each note beginning its own individual pattern. And though the sound flowing from his fingertips was certainly not composed, it seemed to be affected by his moods. But today the music seemed stale.

After some minutes he suddenly slammed his hands down on the keyboard. Discordant noise blared through the hall and slowly died. Slowly he sat upright, driving a pale hand through his silver hair. It was growing harder and harder to see the point of his existence. The music simply was not enough anymore. For at some point, he would become a note of discord. The badly tuned instrument that could throw an entire symphony into a cacophony of noise. By that point, it would not matter if he was capable of producing harmonies beautiful enough to send an audience into tears. If anything, he would be the cause of tears of an entirely different kind.

He stood up and shoved the piano stool back. It squeaked jarringly on the wooden floor, and he leaned on the piano for a moment, trying to ignore the pain in his side. Trying to ignore the emptiness in his body that branded him as lost.

"How badly does it hurt?"

Eyes spun away from the piano and turned toward the concert hall. His catlike grey eyes rapidly dissected every shadow and settled on the tall figure who was hidden in shadows by the ornate double doors. "Badly enough." He walked down the stairs and up the aisle slowly, never taking his eyes away from the man who was leaning against the door. "Who are you?"

"Someone who knows what you are, Eyes Rutherford," the man replied. His voice was level, just hovering on the verge of baritone, and self-assured. "A Blade Child."

With a fluid grace that he normally reserved for his piano playing, the teenager drew a small silver gun from the pocket of his dark jacket. In a trice the pistol was cocked and ready. His eyes bored coldly into the man's brown ones, never blinking. It would take the man at least two seconds to reach him, Eyes calculated, even if the man was a Hunter. More than enough time for the bullet to penetrate his heart.

However the man himself made no move. "And I'm not a Hunter," he added casually. "I'm actually trying to help you."

"If you know enough to know about Hunters, you know that no one can help us," Eyes said coldly. He watched the man carefully and decided to give him ten seconds to say more before shooting him. Assuming the man did nothing suspicious, of course.

"You're fifteen years old," the man said coolly. He shook back his head and a lock of dark brown hair fell from its loose ponytail. "You're fifteen years old and you're more cynical than an old man of ninety."

"At least that old man has gotten to see ninety."

"And you think you won't."

Eyes felt as though something was starting to stir just below his heart and work its way into the rhythm of that organ that kept pumping his chancy blood. Perhaps it was anticipation. "I think you know perfectly well that that won't happen."

"I know that it's not supposed to happen," the man said airily. He stared at the ceiling, the walls, anywhere but at the teenager before him. "Shall I review your history for you, Eyes Rutherford? Your birth at the hands of a surrogate mother who then threw you out into the celebrity world when she uncovered your musical talent. Your own discovery when you were eleven, you were told the truth of your heritage, that you were destined to become a killer, that no matter what you do, someday you will become a monster. That blood of your father's, that blood destined to destroy and plunge the world in chaos, won't ever go away. And that gaping hole in your side, that reminds you of it all every day of your life."

"You make it sound like the beginning of a fairy tale. But yes, that is it. Did you come here to mock me for it? If so, then I'm pulling the trigger."

"I came here to try to help you. You're inclined to be a bit melodramatic, Rutherford. I'm not just reciting your history; I'm a part of it."

"How?"

"Your father- that man, who had chaos at his fingertips and could manipulate it as well as you manipulate those piano keys- is dead."

Eyes nodded. He had known that for a long time now. Then he realized that the man was actually looking at him, and was not turning away. Slowly, as though he was gauging Eyes' reaction, the man went on. "I was the one who killed him."

A dead silence fell in the concert hall. Eyes did not lower the gun or move. "Is that supposed to enrage me? Can you prove it?"

"Yes, if you wish. I can show you the evidence, and I can track down two witnesses of our encounter. I have to admit, I was hoping that you would believe me."

"I'm not sure I do. But even assuming you did kill him, I fail to see what that does for me. He's dead. Now I know why."

The man shrugged. "I was hoping it would give a little more credence to what I'm about to tell you."

"And what are you about to tell me?"

"I think you can be saved."

The silence that fell then hung like the last note in a complex piano concerto. Eyes could feel his fingers growing sweaty. He should have shot the stranger when he had the chance. The longer he waited the more likely it was that someone, a security guard or stage manager, would walk in while he was holding the weapon. He mentally reviewed every detail of the stage and decided that he had to move away from the open hall. "Go to the stage. Walk past me with both hands visible, and I will shoot if I think necessary. Go on."

Without a trace of fear, not even a nervous bounce in his step, the man did as instructed. "Now we're on stage. What does that do?"

"Go behind the curtain," Eyes commanded. His voice was cold. Now that he was onstage, with the piano so close, it was obvious that this stranger was utterly mad. The only hope Eyes had was in his music, and even that was temporary.

Together they walked behind the curtain, Eyes keeping the gun trained all the while at the man's back.

As soon as the heavy black velvet fold had fallen into place, cutting them off from the drafty hall, the man turned to the teenager. "You're curious, Eyes Rutherford. You want to know if I can do anything to save you."

"I doubt it," Eyes said coolly. "But I am curious. What can you do to alter what my birth- what our births- did to us? Our existence is an outrage, and everyone who knows of us knows that."

"Would you laugh if I said that I think of you as victims?"

Eyes glared at him. "If you said that, I would likely kill you."

"Why? I mean it. You aren't using the genius you've born with." Bitterness laced the man's voice. "Think about it. I know enough about you to know about the existence of the Hunters, your missing rib, your blood. Do you think I don't know how dangerous you are? How many people you've shot, cut down, stabbed in the back? What makes you think I'd be such a fool as to go up to you and _mock_ you? You just don't want to believe something you hold to be impossible. Because it frightens you."

"You are a fool if you think a genuine hope would frighten me."

"Then trust me, Eyes. I can save you. Or rather- I know someone who can."

Eyes looked at the man. The gun the teenager was holding was fitted with a silencer, and even if his shot was overheard, he could later attribute it to something wrong with the scenery. There were enough empty rooms in the theater that he could dispose of the body temporarily, until there was easier time to get rid of it. Yet he wanted to know more. Now that the possibility of salvation had been planted in his mind, he longed to know more. To know whether or not there was anything to this man's claims. To know whether there was a possibility that there could be salvation for children who been brought to life from a desire to kill.

"Who are you?" he finally asked.

"Kiyotaka Narumi." The man looked down at him for a long moment. "I have been caught in this from the beginning. I did my part. I destroyed my set opponent. But I do not want to leave you to whatever fate he had in mind."

"If you cannot help us, who can?"

"My younger brother."

Eyes gave the man a hard look before pocketing his gun. He could shoot through cloth easily enough, and it seemed pointless to keep his weapon exposed while he questioned this man. "I don't understand why your younger brother can help us and not yourself."

"Because my younger brother has the capability to be greater than me. To deny destiny. If he grew, he could even destroy me."

The strange intonation in the words 'destroy me' did not escape Eyes' ear. They were the off-key notes in a short and strange melody. And he knew those notes well enough from his own playing. Those words were the notes of someone whose longing and passion had overstepped the tempo and rhythm of the song. "You want to die yourself."

The man was silent. Eyes turned his gaze away, staring at the ground just beside the man's shoe. "If dying is all you want, then you won't help us," he said at last. "If you want to save us, you can't be seeking to destroy. Even if it's yourself."

"That's why I said my brother and not myself."

"You don't believe that he can do it, though," Eyes said flatly.

"I don't know what I believe." The man's voice was so quiet that the teenager turned to look at him fully for the first time. The strong line of the man's jaw was belied by the weary lines hovering just at the corners of his dark eyes. The sleek brown hair was a shadow over the pale face, and the well-made hands hanging from the tan coat sleeves had a look of wear and tear on their joints. Looking at those hands made Eyes realize something. Those hands were the hands of someone who made, who moved, and who controlled. They should not belong to this broken-eyed man.

"If you don't know what you believe, I'm not the person you should be talking to."

"But what about you yourself, Eyes Rutherford? Do you know what you believe? You know your past. So why haven't you destroyed yourself yet? Isn't it because you know somehow that that would be the final act of complete despair? You may not hope, but you haven't fully despaired of your fate. Not yet."

"Not yet," Eyes repeated. "I'm rather close. And I have a concert in half an hour, and I need you to get off this stage now and leave. I'm giving you five seconds to decide." He shifted his hand in his pocket.

The man stood leisurely. "I have a ticket for this performance. After it ends, I'm going to wait at the third pillar from the left walking out the main front doors until eleven. If you haven't shown up by then, you won't need to see me again."

He shoved aside the heavy black curtains and disappeared. Eyes could hear his steps descending the stage stairs. Soon the steps were muffled by carpet and then faded altogether.

Slowly Eyes moved back onto the stage and into the back room where he kept his sheet music. The freshly printed notes made him think of black lace. His fingers were subconsciously tapping out the rhythm, tracing the required movement on an invisible piano. Every note was already flowing in his mind, but there was always the risk that the notes would fail, trip on their way out of his fingers and crash as they melded with the piano keys. When it came to a concert, in the end, there was only himself and the piano to provide the experience. He had to throw himself into the web of melody and hope he could entrap the audience in it as well.

When the time came to walk across the stage, he could feel the lights burning on his pale skin. He raised a hand to acknowledge the audience, a gesture required by his manager. The light made his slender fingers glow bright red. Red with the blood he hated. He sat, taking some comfort in the chill of the keys. Taking a deep breath, he began to play.

His fingers were operating mechanically, and he knew it was far from his best performance. Only a nuanced ear would pick out the difference between his performance tonight and one where he was at his best, but Eyes was well aware that his mind was elsewhere. He was dwelling on the mysterious man, who had known him for what he was and had dared to offer him hope.

Slowly he began to feel his way around the notes, trying to loosen his fingers. The hope of salvation could easily destroy him. In his position it was so easy to fall. Indeed he had already fallen. If there was hope, it meant that he had fallen even while he had been capable of being someone utterly different. And yet if there was hope it would mean that he could still rise.

The notes were coming more easily now. Something in the music was softer and easier. He could tell that as surely as he could feel the rise of daydreams in his heart, and the rise of something else. He did not want to call it hope just then. There was a long way from a desire for something and a genuine hope for it. For though he desired salvation, he feared it as well. Hope had to have more confidence.

Even as the thought of confidence came to him, the notes suddenly seemed to rise. Every rhythm, every pause, every half-note had its purpose now, and each and every one was holding itself together in a pattern that was both familiar and yet completely unique to this concert hall, this night, this audience. Without conscious thought he shut his eyes, just for one instant, and it was as though he could feel everything he might have been in that one moment. If that was what hope could do, then he would be a fool not to at least listen to the possibility.

He continued to play. The music ended and the applause broke over him like a waterfall.

As soon as the last straggling concertgoer had disappeared into the rainy London night, Eyes pulled back his hair and threw on his dark coat. The door seemed very heavy as he shoved it open and moved forward toward the third pillar on the left.

When he came in front of the man, neither one of them said anything for a long time. At last Kiyotaka broke the silence. "You played well."

Eyes inclined his head. "Tell me about this younger brother of yours."

The ghost of a smile flitted across Kiyotaka's features. "Then you'll try to find out if there's any hope."

Cars passed with the hissing splash of rubber on soaked asphalt. Eyes looked past the pillars into the jumble of lights and dark shapes that was the downtown capital. And somewhere in the night, from an open window in some far-off apartment, came the sound of a distant piano playing through a stereo screen. It was his last chance to turn back. This intruder could introduce a new hell into Eyes' life, the hell of uncertainty. At least as things stood now, he knew the gloomy melody he was meant to play. If he chose to lend an ear to this man's song, he would be plunging into a symphony of which he was entirely ignorant of the notes, the tune, and the scale.

When Eyes finally spoke, his voice was cold and determined; a great contrast to the melodies that had poured from him that night. "Yes, I will. Tell me about your brother."

And Kiyotaka did.


End file.
